He had his pie, now he’s had his chips.

Cava Kenny Cordiner, the football pundit who gives you a mouthful

I felt sorrow for rolo-polo goalie Wayne Shaw earlier this week. He’s the hefty substitute custodian for Sutton United what ate a pie on the telly during Monday’s FA Cup tie with Arsenal. It all seemed like a bit of armless fun at the time but next morning it was not armless anymore because it had growed arms. And legs.

It turns out Sutton’s sponsor was offering 8-1 on Shaw eating a pie on TV, and that the pie was laid out especially for him. Football and gambling don’t mix, these days; so poor old Wayne has shot himself in the sword and had to fall on his foot.

I recall when I was at Brechin we was sticking Alloa at Glebe Street, and the bookies took several unusually large bets that I would get my marching orders in the second half.  The beaks was notified and they watched the game with compound interest to see if old Kenny was playing with a stray bat.

Of course I never knew nothing about no bets and thankfully I proved my incontinence by not getting sent off in the second half. Happily, I chinned their left back early doors and got sent off in the third minute.

J Fergus Lamont, Arts Critic and Author of “Did I Mention I Ken Rod Stewart? – The Ricky Simpson Story”

I noticed, when thumbing through the latest copy of the Michelin Guide, that one of Scotland’s foremost restaurants had attained coveted Michelin star status.  You may not have heard of it – it lies well off the beaten track and is the destination de choix of only the true insider – but The Horn Restaurant and Milkbar is at the very cutting edge of modern cuisine, its rooftop Fresian simulacrum luring customers in off the A90 like an ungulate Siren.

“Magnificent!” I cried, much to the surprise of everyone else in Waterstones, and, deciding I could not go another day without again savouring the Horn’s extraordinary fare, I leapt into my jalopy  and took off down the road.  I screeched to a halt by the door and fairly sprinted into the restaurant.  “A bacon roll!”  I demanded of the adolescent server, who, I am pleased to say, was as plooky and surly as tradition demands.  And then it happened.  She opened up the be-margarined bap before her, and forced in not one, not two, but three tongs-full of brittle bacon scraps.  “Bravo!” I cried, causing a nervous lady of a certain age to choke upon a tattie.

After the ambulance had gone, I spoke to the owner, asking why the coveted Michelin star was not on display.  He asked me what on earth I was blithering on about.  It transpires that it was not the Horn which has been awarded a Michelin star; but a restaurant in Horn, on the Germany-Luxembourg border.  Laughing, I took another bite of my bap, and a shard of bacon lanced its way into the gap between my teeth, embedding itself in my gum.
I wept.

Prof Hector Schlenk, Senior Researcher at the Bogton Insitute for Public Engagement with Science

As a scientist, people often ask me questions like ‘Can you assist at the SPECTRA festival?’ ‘Are you sure this ground covering is thick enough?’ and ‘Oh for goodness sake, when will this grass grow back?’  As I write these words, I am very excited.  In fact, I’m beside myself.  Thanks to the little cloning experiment I’ve spent the afternoon on.  What inspired me was the exciting news that Harvard boffins are but two years away from cloning a woolly mammoth. Or to be more exact, a hybrid of elephant and mammoth. A ‘mammophant’. This is not a real word, but it is real news, at which I felt a hybrid of enthusiasm and delirium, or ‘deliriasm’. This is also not a real word, but is a real emotion that I often feel upon reading scientific announcements.

This being the North-East of Scotland in February, and my heating being on the blink again, I could immediately see the advantages in a covering of mammoth-like woolly hair, and so decided to try my hand at cloning a more hirsute version of myself.  Having quickly shredded and stuck my wife’s mohair jumper to a papier-mâché replica of myself, I only await the next lightning strike to bring the homunculus to life. Mrs Schlenk was so excited by what had become of her sweater she left almost immediately.  I shall not repeat the hybrid of things that she called me as she left but I suspect ‘Blutcase’ is not a real word either.

Perfect training for playing against Motherwell’s defence.

Ron Cluny, Official Council Spokesman

“Sometimes it’s hard to be a woman,” Tammy Wynette famously informed us.  Well Tammy, try being a public servant.  This week, social media has been alive with discussion about a decision taken by a North East local authority.  Of course, people being as they are, the discussion is not praise for Aberdeen City Council’s brave and insightful decision to commission the magnificent SPECTRA festival (I personally thought it was dangerous to spend public money on an event which celebrated the shadowy baddies from James Bond, but it seems to have paid off wonderfully).  Oh no – the internet is abuzz with complaints about Aberdeenshire Council’s decision to plant trees on a football pitch.  As is so often the case, the moaners miss the point.  Dribbling round cones is a well-established training-ground drill – dribbling around conifers is the greener alternative.  And avoiding a whack in the chops from a low branch will give our youngsters sharper reflexes and peripheral vision, all the better to avoid the flying elbows which characterise Sunday league football, and the Scottish premiership.  But of course, the council’s antagonists will never see this.  Their prejudices, like the trees, are too deep-rooted.

J Fergus Lamont – Arts correspondent.

I was delighted to read about the Committee who are to reporting on today on a strategic plan to promote the Doric language in schools across the North-East. At last our City fathers are taking their cultural responsibility seriously, and ensuring that the “wye we spik” is going to be comprehensively taught, or, as we say in these parts,, “learnt proper”. Growing up as I did in the city’s Carden Place, I of course am a native ‘spikker’ of the demotic common tongue. Indeed, as a child I delighted in conversing in the argot with Mrs. Duncan , the lady who did for Mother. ‘Aye aye, Mrs Duncan!’ I would greet her ’ Foos yer doos?’. “Bugger aff ye saft gype” she would rejoinder. Happy days. This stood me in good stead when authoring my own series of Doric translations of Proust’s ‘A La Recherche Du Temps Perdu’ (Currently charting at 9879 on Amazon. One reviewer noting that coming, as it does, in 7 volumes its principle strength was that it ‘allowed me to access other books on a higher shelf ‘ (a pleasing metaphor for achieving an elevated state of consciousness due to its profundity).

However, as an enthusiastic promoter of our noble North East patois, I could not fail to do my own “bittie” in assisting this scheme. I wasted no time in ”gan roon” to the nearest primary school to my home in the city’s fashionable Kincorth Circle. There, I performed an impromptu Doric reading of Jame’s Joyce’s Ulysees for a lucky class of Primary 3s. Their teacher was completely stunned. I think it was one of the larger boys that did it – handy as I probably wouldn’t have been allowed in otherwise. The children themselves were so appreciative of my recitation that I was barely two sentences in before they started applauding slowly whilst shaking their heads from side to side. However, one young fellow intimated somewhat forcefully that he had not enjoyed it, and was critical in a way which I can only describe as Tynanesque. It seems that while the teaching of the Doric language in our schools may be required, the same cannot be said of Anglo-Saxon.

I wept.

Cava Kenny cordiner, the football pundit who knows which side his bread is buttered.

Things just keep going from bad to worser down at The Rangers. Last weekend they announced that gaffer Mark Warburton had hung up his puffa jacket, only then he turned round and says he never said what The Rangers said he says. Sad. Whatever the over and outs, Warburton is toast. Melody told me to put that last bit, but I don’t know why.

Now that he’s gone, there is wild speculum as to who will take the job. If you ask me, it’s a bit of a poisoned chalet. Aberdeen gaffer Derek McInnes is an oblivious target since he used to play for the club that The Rangers used to be. Thankfully he says he is not interested in sitting in the Ibrox hot tub. If he does get offered the job he’ll have a decision to make. Does he want to be manager of the second biggest club in Scotland challenging for honours with bitter rivals Celtic, or does he want to go to The Rangers?

Spiralized Courgette? It’s the thin end of the veg.

How are you surviving the great vegetable famine of 2017? We asked 3 regular contributors for their views

Davina Smythe-Barrat, ordinary mum.

Just when we thought that with Trump and Brexit, this year couldn’t possibly be worse than 2016; I find myself unable to supply my (almost certainly gluten intolerant) children with their life-saving spiralized courgette. Will this waking nightmare never end? Worse still, I’m throwing a dinner party at the weekend for some of the other ordinary mums from my Friends of the Earth group. We meet once a month to discuss ways of reducing our carbon footprint. At Stobo Castle. It’s a bit of a hike for everyone, but the spa is amazing. Anyway, I’ve promised those eco-warriors Snezhana’s authentic ratatouille, and I can’t let them down. I’m just going to have to airfreight my veggies from the States. Tragic.

Kevin Cash, Money Saving Expert and King of the Grips

Dizna mak ony great odds to me.  As lang as Asda still his Pot Noodles and its ain-brand Red Bull, yer pal Kevin will nae go withoot nutrition.  But I see the poshos is having an affa time o’ it.  Bless. But never forget – a wrinkle in the rules o’ supply and demand means that there is money to be made for someone.  And me and my pal Mick the Pill hiv decided that someone is gaan tae be us.  Following an extensive cost-benefit analysis, Mick his decided to switch production o’ his dedicated artificial-light growing facility in the sticks (I’d be mair specific, but then I’d hiv to kill ye) fae cannabis tae iceberg lettuce.  He’ll be selling the first fruits o’ his labours roond the wine-bars to avid veg-heads desperate for a leaf to munch as early as next Thursday.  In the meantime, we’re experimenting on creating modified aubergines.  Aye, nae genetically modified, we’re jist spray-pinting tatties purple.  That’s the value!

Tanya Souter, local lifestyle guru

Hear me; I seen a sign up at Aldi this wik saying that lettuces wis limited tae 3 per person.  Weel, I da ken aboot youse, but I didna think onyb’dy I ken wid lose ony sleep ower that. But fan I mentioned it tae my pal Big Sonja, she wis ootraged. She says ‘First they came for the lettuce, and I didna spik oot, because I dinna like lettuce. Then they come for the jaffa cakes…” and then she gied me a look, a look I ken of auld fit means ‘If Aldi thinks it can limit Big Sonja tae three lettuces, it’s got anither thing coming’. And that is fit wye she is on CCTV legging it doon the Lang Stracht wi half a dizen cos in a Sports Direct bag, fower icebergs up her jumper, and a little gem aneth each oxter. Fan she got oot o’ the cells, she told me the bobbies hid confiscated the lot except a bug o’ rocket she’d managed tae secrete aboot her person. ‘Far did ye pit the rocket?’ I asks her. ‘Far d’ye hink? She says. We jist hid chips for wir tea.

Cava Kenny Cordiner, the football pundit who calls a club a club

As my regulatory readers will know, old Kenny enjoys watching a sportsman lose their tempura. Normally it’s football, but on Sunday night it was a tennis player what suffered a flush of blood to the head.

In case you never seen it, 17 year old Canadian Dennis Shufflepuff got a bit hot under the collarbone and tanned a tennis ball right off the umpire’s coupon. This meant he got disqualified and Great Britain won through to the quarter final of the Dickie Davis Cup. I felt sorrow for the young lad though. Up until then he had been struggling to land the ball inside the court, so he done really well to catch the umpire clean on the dial first time.

It minded me on a time when I struck the ref during a match. Accidentally, that is. I’ve intentionally struck the ref more times than I’ve had cold dinners. It was when I was playing for Locos against Brora Rangers up at Dudgeon Park. Basher Greig headed the ball to me on the edge of our box and he says to me, he says “clear it Kenny, Row Z!” Well, I must have taken both my eyes off the ball because when I hut it, I sclaffs it smack in to the whistler’s unmentionables. When he finally got his breath back and his eyes stopped watering, we had a good laugh about it. Until I cleaned out their winger 5 minutes later and he sent me off. So I kneed him in the chuckies.

Say what you like about Donald Trump…while you still can.

Davinia Smythe-Barrett, ordinary mum

I want to raise a fist in solidarity with my brothers and sisters from Monday night’s rally at the Castlegate. It was great to see that people from all walks of life, including ordinary mums like me, were prepared to stand in the cold, shouting and waving their placards to protest a great injustice – we shall overcome!

I’ve seen some sneering about the size of the protest compared to what went off in other places round the country, but we all know how hard it is to draw a crowd in Aberdeen; just look at what happened to Jamie’s Italian! Anyway, it’s the people who did attend who matter, not the stay-at-home brigade who couldn’t be bothered.

Naturally, I was there to lend my support – in spirit, anyway. Monday nights are absolutely crazy in the Smythe-Barrett household, what with Fidel’s Latin tutor, Emmeline’s dressage lessons and my pilates at Kippie. So I sent Snezanha, our au pair (she’s Bulgarian, but she’s wonderful) on my behalf. I dropped her off in the Discovery to get the bus at the Bieldside Inn with strict instructions to protest my anger vigorously, even if it meant arrest or hypothermia!

You may have seen her in some of the press coverage. She’s the one who looks uncannily like Les Dawson with the placard that reads “immigrants should not be treated like slaves”. It’s an issue that, like myself, she feels very strongly about.

View from the midden – rural affairs with Jock Alexander

It’s been another vexatious wik in the village, as Feel Moira’s reign of terror as heid of the Women’s Institute continues unabated. The latest stooshie sterted fan the village woke up tae find a proclamation in green crayon nailed tae the door o’ the Toon Ha’ banning onyb’dy fae setting foot in Meikle Wartle if they come fae Durno, Rothienorman or Mains of Glack (though nae, as micht hiv been expected, Pitcaple wir traditional nemesis. But then Moira’s sister bides in Pitcaple and dis a verra good banana loaf.)

Onyb’dy that wiz born in ony o’ that placies is also affected, as are fowk that have been there for the day and quite enjoyed it. Although that is nae a significant number.

Weel, this caused quite a clamjammfrey. It wisnae that fowk didnae wint tae leave Meikle Wartle, mony hid been looking for an excuse, but there’s only the one bus passing through the village at the wikend, so the queue at the bus stop wis teemin’; until it turned oot the bus driver wis fae Daviot, sae he wis banned an’ a’. Noo the bus jist sails through wi’oot stopping. Nae, in fairness, a massive change.

Moira says she’s daein’ a’ this tae mak us safe, but I hiv tae say, fan she says it, I dinna feel safe.

Cheerio!

Professor Hector Schlenk – science correspondent

As a scientist, I am often asked questions like “Do you have a reservation?”, “Is this your table?’, and “Can you please put down that sandwich or do I have to call Security?”, but this week I have mostly been inspired by the efforts of two eminent Harvard scientists who claim to have succeeded in creating Metallic Hydrogen – the rarest and possibly most valuable material on the planet. This could, of course, revolutionise the world, enabling the creation of ultra-fast computers, high-speed levitating trains, and super-speedy phone and internet connections that will allow cold callers and spam emailers to contact you the very instant you forget to tick the ‘no thank you’ box on your house insurance online application. But what is it, I hear you ask? Well, Hydrogen when cooled becomes a liquid, and then when suitably compressed, eventually transforms into a ‘VLM’ or Very Light Metal – think of it as the Bon Jovi of the periodic table. Now, a number of reputable physicists have pooh-poohed the claim as nonsense. However, some disreputable ones, such as myself, say, give it a chance! Any science sufficiently advanced is indistinguishable from magic, and this act of alchemy certainly is.  So what if the scientists cannot show us the metal in question because it’s ‘stuck in their anvil’? Who cares if they claim that removing the material from the anvil might cause it to disappear entirely?   Having spent the morning knee-deep in chemicals, trying to reproduce (or rather ‘produce’) their results I’m feeling a bit light-headed, and ready to believe just about anything. Now I’ve melted all my cutlery and mixed it with the contents of my bathroom cabinet, so there’s a lot of strange coloured vapour floating around in the air which is quite making me forget my rhubarbs right in the middle of my ostriches, without even noticing I’m doing it.

________________________________________

Parliament is Sovereign? We didn’t vote for that! Oh. Hang on…

Cosmo Ludovic Fawkes Hunte, 13^th Earl of Kinmuck

So the loathsome swarm that calls itself the Supreme Court has issued its judgment on Brexit, and slice my sprouts and baste me in marmalade if they haven’t gone and said that legislation is required to start the process off.  Well, really.  What do these so-called Justices, with their fancy robes; academic honours and life-long careers in the law know of the constitution of the land?  It is not to be found in their fusty books, but in the hearts and minds of the people.  Not all of the people, obviously – that would be ridiculous – but in the hearts of minds of people like me.  We have no need of this ‘rule of law’ fol-de-rol. To start the Brexit process, all that should be necessary is for Theresa May to haul on her jodhpurs, ride out on a white charger, sound a hunting horn and release the hounds.  That was how my illustrious forebear, the 3^rd Earl, administered Kinmuck in the 1600s.  He ruled with an iron fist – literally.  He had it made by the village smithy and used it to crack uppity peasants over the skull.  Ah, the 1600s – a golden age.  In those honeyed days, if a man were sufficiently wealthy, he could say whatever he wished – no matter how outlandish – and still be believed by a credulous and compliant system, and moreover he could simply grab a passing wench whenever he pleased! If only there were still somewhere on earth where that were still the case

View from the Midden; rural news with Jock Alexander from MTv (Meiklewartle Television)

It’s been a controversial wik in the village. I spik, of course, of Feel Moira’s elevation to heid of the Meikle Wartle Women’s Institute. Some folk are saying that she’s nae richt for the job. Noo I ken that Moira has mair testosterone nor ony loon in the village, but that’s nae reason tae discriminate. She snatched an unexpected win in the vote fan the incumbent, Esma fae the Post Office, missed the crucial meeting efter falling intae a bear-trap fit hid been mysteriously dug ootside her hoose. Kids!

But it’s nae been a popular appointment.   Numbers wiz certainly doon for her inauguration in the village tearoom. We ken this because Auld Jessie fa runs it wis saying tae Haldie Winton in the shoppie that she wis fine pleased that there hidna been mony fowk, efter last year, fan Esma hid very nearly 15 wifies in attendance and her bannocks got trampled. But Moira wiz on the warpath, claiming that reports of a drop in numbers are ‘fake-news’, and that Jessie’s been tampering with her CCTV. Weel, that came as a great shock. Naeb’dy in the village kent Jessie hid CCTv, and we’ve a’ been pinching butteries aff her coonter fan she isnae looking.

Noo, Moira his sterted issuing executive orders tae end co-operation wi’ the W.I.s in Durno, Newseat and Mains of Glack; tae stop all donations tae Oxfam and allowing the construction of a sewage pipe connecting Skittery Willie’s piggery tae the Burn o’ Wartle. At’s fit wye we’ve hid a mass protest at the Burns Supper in the Village hall. Michty, it wiznae pretty. Shouting, recriminations, huggis a’wye. But, as I minded mysel’ fan I wis scraping dried cockaleekie soup aff the wa’s, that’s democracy for ye. Cheerio!

Cava Kenny Cordiner, the football pundit who went for the ball

There’s so much doom and flume around sport these days, so it was great to see Rod Stewart enjoying himself at the Scottish Cup draw on Sunday. Rod fairly looked like he’d been enjoying the Albion Rovers hospitability at half time. He breathed new life into the dreary process of pulling balls out of a bag, and even gave the suit from the SFA a wee tackle from behind. Some folks is saying he was just excited because his beloved Celtic had won, but old Kenny reckons he was sailing!

But Rod’s not the first person with important duties who has had little bit of dust courage. Old Kenny once compared a charity auction at the Marcliffe. I’d never done one before, and I was so nervous I had left my dental plate at home. So I couldn’t not believe my luck when the waiter asked if I wanted a pair of teeth. But he never brought me spare dentures, just a big glass of vodka, which I drunk.  Well, I has not never been that good with numbers at the worst of times, so the auction went a bit high-wire! By the end, Willie Miller won an Ishoka voucher, Robbie Shepherd paid 2 grand for a hot-stones massage, and Alex Salmond got a 4-ball at Trump’s.

Earthxit, anyone?

Hector Schlenk, Senior Research Fellow at the Bogton Institute for Public Engagement with Science:

As a scientist, people are often asking me questions like “Is manmade global warming real?”, “Is Bigfoot real?” and “Is Michael Gove for real?” to which the answers are of course ‘oh yes’, ‘oh no’ and ’oh god, I’m afraid so’. The other day, I was delivering a lecture about the continuously variable signal of binary on/off bits that constitute a digital broadcast when I happened to catch sight of a news bulletin which told me of the passing of US astronaut Gene Cernan, on the bank of televisions I was using as a visual aid. I just had time, as I was being asked to leave the electrical department of John Lewis, to note that he was last man to walk on the moon. This surprised me, as I had understood that particular honour was claimed by the pop star Sting. However, upon researching the topic, I found that the tantric troublemaker’s claim is unsubstantiated. In fact, only 12 people have ever walked on the moon, the last being Mr Cernan in 1972. How long, I worried, in our post-truth world, until we forget that we ever went there? Already there are some who believe the whole thing was an elaborate hoax, like Piltdown man, or homeopathy. So I’ve decided the only thing for it is to instigate my own moon mission and become the first Bogton Rotarian to walk on the lunar surface.

After two weeks of intense training on Aberdeen’s Union Street I have gained extensive experience of the absence of atmosphere, of negotiating a pitted and crater-strewn surface, of temperatures consistent with the -153 degrees found on the moon (cold enough, of an evening, to persuade a young man to put on a long sleeved shirt) and the sensation of weightlessness, thanks to being carried out of The Grill. I intend to blast off not from Cape Canaveral but Codonas Carnival, where I will gain the appropriate upward velocity to escape the earth’s gravity by transferring the centripetal force generated by the waltzers to propel me backwards up the giant slide. I’m not entirely sure how I’ll manage to make the return journey, though frankly, looking at the state of things here on earth, I may not bother.

Entertainment news with showbiz insider Shelley Shingles, (Miss Fetteresso 1983)

OM actual G! As you all know, Celeb spotting is one of my fave hobbies, and obviously an awful lot of very famous folk are close personal friends of mine, but, I have to confess, even I get a little wee bit star struck when I get to rub shoulders with royalty; and this week, I didn’t even have to tootle along the A93 to Balmoral, shin up a drain pipe and climb in through a lavvy window to see them!

I was at the opening of the new Rowett Institute yesterday. Well, I say I was at the opening, to tell the truth I don’t even know what a Rowett is! Anyway I’d just popped out of my bronchial ailments Outpatient clinic for a crafty fag when I spotted the tell-tale black Daimler with the flags on the front -blow me down, they’d only managed to book Camilla to cut the ribbon! Quick as a flash I legged it over to the receiving line, howking a fistful of snow-drops out of a flowerbed en route. It’s easy to get up close and personal to the HRHs as long as you’re carrying flowers and know how to curtsey. Anyway, there she was, large as life, the Duchess of Wherever she’s Duchess of. ‘What a privilege it is to be here’ she said. I said, ‘I know – for another fifty quid they could have had Claudia Winkelman.’

Of course, me and Camilla go way back. I first met her back in the 80’s on the shores of Loch Muick when I was doing a photo shoot for an outdoor clothing company (I think it was Barbour, but it might have been Robert Rae’s) I was struggling along because nobody told me I shouldn’t wear stilettoes, and I’d just heitered into a patch of heather when a kindly soul helped me back up. She was lovely. We spoke about how difficult it is to choose the right clothing before setting off on your journey, and she asked where I was off to next. “Fetteresso” I told her. “Wear the fox hat” she advised.

Wise words from a great lady.

 

Is this dossier on Donald a big story, or just wee one?

J Fergus Lamont, Arts Critic and Author of “The Filth and the Fury – the unauthorised biography of Carol Smillie”

This week saw a bravura performance from a young artist of such poise and promise that he could have stepped straight out of the cabaret clubs of Weimar Germany.  I doubt you’ll have heard of him – his satirical work has thus far attracted little, if any publicity – but I predict great things from young Donald J. Trump.  His particular genius lies in affecting the persona of an inarticulate pre-teen bully, unexpectedly elevated to the position of president-elect of the United States of America – from whence he offers his pithy, ill-informed critique on all and sundry, while showing all the emotional robustness of a sugar-deprived toddler when someone has the temerity to fire back; all to hilarious effect.    This week he has treated us to what I am given to understand are known as “twitter rants” about how Meryl Streep is ‘overrated’, the injustice of ‘fake news’ and that the Russian Government should be trusted over U.S. Intelligence agencies – all delivered without the tiniest soupcon of irony.

Like the work of Sacha Baron Cohen, his oeuvre constantly stands on the brink of disaster, for the characterisation is simply too extreme to remain credible.  But therein lies its joy.  The notion that the future President of the greatest nation on earth could be spending his time obsessively watching television and then ineffectually name-calling all who offer dissent is as absurdly delicious as it is drenched in pathos.  For shock value, it could only be bettered if Ghandi were reanimated as a belligerent London cabbie.  Bravo, Donald, bravo, for bravely showing us the dystopian future that could lie ahead if ever a President like you were elected in real life. I wept.

View from the Midden – rural affairs with Jock Alexander

It’s been a cineastic wik in the village, as we’re buzzing fae the news that noted comic book, superhero film and dried milk manufacturer Marvel are planning tae shoot their new Avengers picter “across Scotland”. Reports say February’s filming will include Glasgow, Edinburgh, and the Highlands. Weel, why should these be the only option? Aiberdeen micht nae be in the running as a location – unless this is the een far Iron Man gings tae the bookies, and the Hulk smashes up a pound shop, but, fit mair apt setting fer a lurid fantasy involving oddly dressed fowk bashing each ither up than Meikle Wartle?

The village wid be ideal for shooting a multimillion dollar blockbuster. There’s a barren majesty tae wir unspoilt, windswept scenery. Nae smartphone publicity shots would iver get oot, thanks tae oor mobile black-spot. Nae crowds of curious onlookers, nae paparazzi, or telegraph poles. Or trees. And the big destructive fight scene at the end can be verra economically staged in the village square, far maist buildings are aboot tae collapse onywye. Plus, there’s ample accommodation fer Samuel L. Jackson’s entourage in auld Muggie Grant’s B&B on the high street. Feel Moira is affa keen tae tell Mr Jackson aboot a script she’s written aboot snakes terrorising fowk in Old Rayne. Noo, If only she could come up wi’ a title.

Cheerio!

Cava Kenny Cordiner, the football pundit who goes in feet first

Confidence is a sensual ingredient of being a top sportsman, like what I was. But sometimes there is a fine line between confidence and angoras. Take curly-haired golf maestro Rory Mcilroy, for instance. He was on the news this week saying that he is ruling himself out of the Tokyo Olympics in 2020. I think he’s bolting the cart after the horse is in front of stable door, there. He might be good at golf, but I can’t seem him sailing past Mo Farrah on the home straight!

Mind you, it does spare the selectors a headache when the time comes. I don’t know if my old pal Gordon Strachan reads my column, but if you does, and if we somehow manage to qualify for the 2018 World Cup, and if somehow you’re still the gaffer, I’m ruling myself out. My knees aren’t up to it, Gogsy, so it’s only fair I let you know.

Speaking of the World Cup, I seen that Fifa has voted to expand it to 48 teams. A lot of folks is saying that this is just total exploitation – a shameless attempt to make money, and I have to say, I agrees. It’s going to cost a fortune to get all that stickers for my Panini album.

This statue is like a Council debate – a point here, a point there, and an awful lot of bull in between

J Fergus Lamont – arts critic and author of ‘Damed For All Eternity: Elaine C. Smith, the Panto Years’

Truly, this promises to be a Happy New Year for those of us steeped in the Visual Arts. You wont have heard about it, it has received little if any publicity, but plans are afoot to create a giant sculpture to stand watch over the new Aberdeen bypass. What greater declaration of the indomitable esprit de les Aberdonians than an enormous public artwork to rival Tyneside’s ‘Angel of the North’, or the Falkirk ‘Kelpies’. And what better subject for such a piece than a gigantic Aberdeen Angus bull? Initially, I confess, I had reservations, having misunderstood the proposal to be for a 50 foot high statue of the AFC mascot, but even if it were, it’s high time such powerful artistic statements became part of our local plan – it’s dynamic, it’s powerful, and it’ll give everyone affected by the downturn in oil & gas something inspiring to look at as they leave the region in search of work.

Predictably, some philistines have made disparaging remarks regarding the artist’s impression of the statue. For my part, I consider it to be a work of subtle self-reflective, genius. It goes without saying that there is a poetic resonance in the harmony of form and content that a work commissioned by Aberdeen City Council is a massive load of bull, so I wont detain you with such a trite observation; but what inspiration to render the animal complete with horns, ignoring the fact that in the real world, this animal is polled. A powerful metaphor for our City Fathers, whose disregard of the real world, and especially of polls, is their defining characteristic.

Of course, our city has been making great strides of late in dramatic public art – witness the near completion of the ominous concrete monolith on display opposite Marischal College. As I stopped to contemplate it’s foreboding modernism this morning, I marveled at how our leaders could conceive of such a powerful work of art – simultaneously a grey brutalist cuboid and also a huge white elephant. I wept.

Professor Hector J Schlenk

As a scientist on Hogmanay, people only ever ask me one question. “How long til Midnight?” And while a simple answer suffices most years, the transition from 2016 to 2017 was unusually complex.

As is well known, a year (the time taken for the Earth to orbit the sun) is not exactly 365 days long. And, although ingenious, our system of inserting the 29th of February every 4 years is not quite accurate enough an adjustment to satisfy the scientific community.

So, I find myself simultaneously in awe of my cleverer colleagues who have calculated that the best way to cook the celestial books is to periodically add a “leap second”, but in exasperation with them for deciding that the best time to do this was when the whole world is three sheets to the wind and staring intently at a clock.

Thus, on Hogmanay, spent at my neighbour’s open house shindig, I sensed the potential for confusion at the stroke of midnight and briefed the merry-makers that my countdown would end ‘3-2-1-0 , Happy New Year!’ Rather than the more traditional ‘3-2-1 Happy New Year’. These briefings initially caused some arguments, and so I prepared a 2 hour lecture which I delivered by commandeering the karaoke equipment. I can only assume that my talk was both effective and positively received, as, when I left the soirée, my neighbour told me I wouldn’t need to come back next year!

Shelley Shingles, Showbiz Correspondent and Miss Fetteresso 1983

OM actual G! Facebook was ablaze this week with the news that pop princess Kylie Minogue was in Aberdeenshire for Hogmanay! There was pictures of her buying joob joobs and giving bairns a bosie and all sorts. Poor quine – comes all the way to the Scottish highlands for a quiet and restful break, and gets pestered by folks wanting autographs and selfies! So of course I did what any responsible journo would do in these circumstances – and high tailed it out Royal Deeside, tracked her down to her exclusive lodge, and asked her what she thought about all the intrusion. “You get used to it”, she said, while signing the gold lame hotpants I’d taken with me on the off-chance. Then I asked if she would mind giving me an exclusive interview. I’ll never forget what she said to me.

“You should be so lucky!”

Wise words from a classy lady!

Why do archaeologists need a million quid? Well, their careers are in ruins.

View from the midden; Rural affairs with Jock Alexander

It’s been an excavatory wik in the village.  You may hiv missed the news, amidst the fug of third-day’s turkey softies and ‘Call the Midwife’ that, efter digging up Rhynie, the University o’ Aiberdeen has bin awarded a grant of a million quid tae fund archeological digs at the seething metropolis of Burghead. The history boffins suspect that in the 5th Century, it was the seat of a “lost kingdom’ of North-West Europe.  And michty, if yer longboat blew far eneuch aff course to land up in Burghead, I fair say ye’d hiv tae consider yerself lost.  Though nae sae lost as if you’d ended up in Lost.   Or indeed here in Meikle Wartle.

Noo we in the village hiv taen a great interest in this story. Niver let it be said that we stood idly by fan some ither village got ideas above it’s station. Especially fan there’s a chunce at a hefty grant. Oh aye, we hiv history oozing fae the soil here, ye ken. Quite literally in some places. And we dinna think Burghead his a leg tae stand on fan claiming they used tae be the hame of Pictish Kings.  I mean, fit dae they hiv tae prove it? Nithin but a pucklie slabs wi bulls carved on them. Weel, we hiv real live bulls.  A lang historical record? We can trace oor ancestry back far beyond the memory of Hector Fndlay, the auldest mannie in the village. Fit is jist as weel, as Hector canna mind fit he hid for his breakfast.

OK, Burghead may hiv the remains of a pictish hill fort, but my coo-shed is at least as auld and in far better nick. I ken this thanks tae the graffiti on the wall, far someb’dy has helpfully carved the words “Come on ye Picts- Scottich cup winners, 413 AD”.  If that disnae guarantee a muckle great development grant, I dinna ken fit will.

Feel Moira is determined tae prove fit wye we should get the money, and has pit her shovel-like hands tae good use, digging up her tattie field in search of proof that in Pictish times, Royalty bade here in Meikle Wartle, and that by royal charter, the toonsfolk were kent as ‘Burgers of the village of Kings’.  She swears blind she eence saw een fit she claims is a “lost Pictish crown” oot there, one frosty winter morn, glittering in the magical misty moonlight, jist aboot visible upon it, parts of the barely discernible inscription ‘Burger…. King’.

Jist as soon as this priceless artefact has been unearthed, we shall demand that Meikle Wartle is, once again, recognized as the very centre of Europe, which is affa handy fan the UK is wintin oot o’it! Cheerio!

Shelley Shingles, Showbiz Correspondent and Miss Feteresso 1983

 2016 has been an affa year to be a showbiz correspondent!  Usually, somebody doing my job spends their life in a little black dress, glass of bubbles in hand, dictating red carpet tittle-tattle doon the line from one party after another.  This year, I’ve spent most of my time holed up in the office, swilling back Nescafe and battering out one obituary after another, with the LBD only getting an airing at funerals.  This is the year when “being a celebrity” overtook uranium mining as the most dangerous job on the planet.  And there’s been no easing off in the final week of the year, with Carrie Fisher and George Michael both being taen from us.  Even if neither of them has had their troubles to seek over the years, it was still a real shocker.  My brother and me shared a room growing up and on one side it was all posters of Princess Leia in a tin bikini and on the other side posters of George and Andrew and their blindingly-white gnashers in their Wham! days.  So the festive fizz seemed pretty flat when we caught up over a glass of bubbles yesterday.  “Oh Leia!” he said, “2016’s done to you what even Darth Vader and the Death Star couldn’t manage!”

May the force be with them, and with you all, now and always.  And mind – if you’re even a teeny bit famous – until the very last second of Hogmanay, look after yersel, take your vitamins and be on the look out for stray fireworks, open manhole covers and falling objects!

 

Christmas Time; niggle, moan & whine

Christmas is a time for peace, goodwill and thinking about those less fortunate than ourselves. But it’s also a time for rampant consumerism, over-eating and feigning enthusiasm at underwhelming presents; so we asked some of our regular contributors what they were hoping Santa might have in his sack for them this year.

J Fergus Lamont; arts critic

‘All I Want for Christmas is My Two Front Teeth’. This is the title of a piece of avant garde musical composition – very much in the vein of Schopenhauer – which might be considered the Magnum Opus of little known American musician, Nat ’King’ Cole. You won’t have heard of it, it has received little, if any media exposure, yet I consider it to be the most thrilling dissertation on dialectical materialism ever committed to vinyl. And I include in that Andy Stewart’s seminal 1960 meisterwerk, ‘Donald, Where’s Your Troosers’.

With almost indecent seasonal serendipity, it is also my own fervent festive wish, as my two front teeth were recently forcibly removed in an angry altercation with a parent who, for her own reasons, objected to my critique of the sadly inadequate performances I suffered through at the Holburn North-West nursery production of ‘The Very Hopeless Camel’. Two words; woefully immature.

I stand by that assessment, and my right to give voice to it, though I now accept I should probably have waited until the production had concluded before delivering it. At the time I considered mounting the stage to bring proceedings to an early halt was an act of mercy for all concerned. She disagreed.

Later, as my dentist informed me of the cost of the dental implants I now require, I wept.

Professor Hector Schlenk;  Senior Research Fellow at the Bogton Institute for Public Engagement with Science

As a scientist, what I want for Christmas is to see government by informed and intelligent people who take due account of scientific evidence when formulating policy rather than preying on the fears of the public.  Failing which, being frozen in a state of suspended animation until such a form of government has come into existence.   Oh, I know what you’re thinking.  “You’re living in dreamland, that’s a fantasy that will never come true.”  But I think it’s important to have faith in the future. Cryogenics is coming on leaps and bounds at the moment.

In the meantime, I’d like to see factual accuracy given a more prominent place in our culture. To that end I have taken the liberty of revising some Christmas carols: ‘Ding Dong Merrily On High, Up to an Altitude of 440 miles Where the Earth’s Exosphere Begins’, (second line: ‘but in heaven the bells aren’t ringing for want of a medium through which sound waves can travel’), ‘In The Bleak Midwinter, the Seasonal Average Is Now 1.4 degrees Fahrenheit Higher Thanks To Man-made Global Warming’ and ‘Rudolph the Red Nosed Reindeer Almost Certainly has Ehrlichosis and Needs to See a Vet’.

Ron Cluny; Official Council Spokesman

What do I want for Christmas?  A return to prosperity for Aberdeen and its citizens; prompt approval of the Council’s plans for improving the Haudagain roundabout; and an end to the needless antagonism that sours relations between local authorities and the Scottish Government.  The unprecedented bitterness that has attended the Brexit referendum and the US election clearly shows the dangers of demagoguery and unguarded political speech.  Ultimately, all of us in government – whether local or national – should be driven by the simple desire to improve the lot of our populous.  There really is no need for ill-temper, rancor, or division.  Well that’s what I say anyway.  No doubt the pudge-faced, tin-pot, pen-pushing poltroons in their gilded Holyrood bubble think otherwise!

Kevin Cash; Money Saving Expert

This Christmas, fit I wid like mair nor onything else would be for Sunty to fall into a lengthy conversation wi my pal Mick the Pill, fa I hiv briefed wi’ a detailed set of questions aboot reindeer avionics and modren chimney dimensions.  I would like him to dae this a short distance awa from the long wheel-based transit fit I have borrowed over the festive season.   And I would like him to be ower knackered fae daeing his deliveries tae turn up and identify the goods as his fan I sell the hale lot on Boxing Day at Thainstone Mart.  Ho ho ho!